


YOUR WORD

by wackyribbons



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Wacky Ribbons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23931037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wackyribbons/pseuds/wackyribbons
Kudos: 3





	1. THE KINGDOM OF SCAENA

Our story takes place in the region of Scaena, built into the cliffs of a continent surrounded on all sides by the Incerta ocean. It had been previously uninhabitable due to the frequent intense natural disasters and it had remained hardly accessible. Now the land flourishes under the protection of a noble family of water Genasi who, with their skills combined, weather every storm that threatens the safety of its people. Over the course of hundreds of years, slowly a society built itself a diverse community with people of all races settling onto the precarious cliff sides. The Genasi, now hailed as royalty, live at the very highest point of Scaena in their huge, sprawling estate, filled with generations of water genasi and their court. In recent years, however, the Genasi family has grown restless and bored; after dismissing their last established court jester over fifty years ago, they began to cycle new entertainers throughout the court as they please, keeping dancers, singers, and musicians alike at their beck and call. To play a piece in their company, to dance a step in their presence, to even playfully make cards disappear and reappear before their eyes is to earn renown and wealth. The Genasi family, never lacking in funds, pays handsomely, and the more frequently they request your company, the greater your audience grows beyond the palace walls. This lead to the creation of the Acropolis of Scaena, a bustling city only a short trip away from the royal grounds, filled to the brim with entertainers all trying to win an invitation to perform for the reclusive Genasi family. The city, while a bit narrow in its roads and streets, stretches for miles up a winding cliffside. Towards the southern region of the Acropolis lies the common folk - those who are either there to provide goods and services (be it tailers, shoe cobblers, taverns and inns) or those who are desperately trying to work their way upwards, performing card tricks on the streets and singing at local taverns during their time off.

As you head farther north, towards the palace, the distance between buildings begins to widen as the structures themselves grow larger and more grandiose than those in the south. As one makes their ascent to the highest point in the Acropolis, private clubs, fine restaurants, and other attractions peak out from behind lavish gardens and intricate bronze, silver, and gold gates. And at the very top of the Acropolis is where the elite reside. The population here can be easily divided into a few categories. There are the children of wealthy families, now grown, who choose to spend their time as young adults lavishly by throwing frequent parties and inviting their like-minded neighbors and any of their equally wealthy companions from neighboring regions. A few of these wealthy figures also consider themselves patrons to the arts; while they seem few and far between, there are more than a handful of entertainers who live comfortably in their patron’s homes, putting on private performances as they slowly make their way towards a royal invitation. Finally, there are the entertainers themselves who’ve been invited to the palace at least once (if not more) who make themselves comfortable in their ridiculously large estates. While they are all swimming in their own charms, whispers spread through the Acropolis down to the southern slums of Scaena of how they appear in private, behind closed doors and off stage: anxious, petty, and desperate to secure the official title of the royal family’s court entertainer. While the royal family has made it clear they have no intention of employing such a person, bards, dancers, and poets alike seem to have an assuredness that they can change the royal family’s mind.

For now, our story finds itself in the northernmost section of the Acropolis, The Upper City. For weeks, rumors have run rampant through the streets in hushed excited tones. Tonight is when the unthinkable happens. While parties are hardly scarce in the Acropolis, this event in particular was the rarest of occasions: a masquerade ball is being held in one of the oldest and most decadent chateaux, and everyone is expressly invited. The people of Scaena all bustle about in eagerness and excitement, preparing gowns not only for the elite, but for themselves as well. Young maidens giggle at each other as they try on homemade masks selling like crazy on street markets while bards practice, now louder, in the alleyways, brimming with hope that this might be a chance for their big break. Dancers who were previously only caught in the southern square maybe once or twice a week, now perform daily, their bodies all twisting together in beautiful synchronizations. Tailors and seamstresses are seen running up and down the streets carrying bolts of gorgeously patterned fabrics, drafting pencils stuck between their teeth and tape measures adorning their necks like fine jewelry.

The whole town has been thrumming in anticipation for months, and all anyone can talk about is what they plan on wearing, or who they hope to see, or what the food may taste like. But none of these topics generate gossip quite so much as the host of the ball in question: Trongy, a tiefling bard who’s a recent inhabitant of the Acropolis and known for her sultry performances that can titillate even the most conservative of crowds. She personally announced the party, putting on a dazzling show in the square and throwing invitations out into the crowd as if they were confetti; those few who grabbed the invitations first were even pleased to note that they were printed on some of the finest paper, the date and details gleaming in gold ink. Aside from her infamous flirtations and notorious dearth in modesty, little else is known about Trongy - it was as if one day, she wasn’t there, and the next, she was everywhere. Whether it be performing in the southern streets or at parties in the Acropolis, there are only so few who cannot recognize her voice, and fewer yet who cannot recognize her bushel of wild hair and red horns barely visible past the crowd of young men, women, and those who identified with neither all desperately vying for a piece of her attention. No one knows how she came into wealth so quickly in the Acropolis, and while the question lingers in the back of a few minds, there is hardly time to spare to such a train of thought with so much else at stake.


	2. SESSION ONE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "From then onwards past the glamour of the wide swinging doors, the celebration seemed to exist only in independent moments; some dragging so long they left party goers feeling as if they had begun to collect dust. Other moments - well those were hardly long enough to gasp during, just a second shorter than a blink."

Even without the physical invite in hand, it would be impossible to miss which mansion on the cliff was home to the evening's festivities. Throngs of people adorned in their best, be it fine silks and satin or broadcloth suits pressed to perfection, make their way towards the entrance of the building; the colors of their finery when wedged shoulder to shoulder in anticipation blurring into one another, paint strokes against the grass. As the sun begins to fall behind the horizon, the stark white of the doors swing open against the orange of the fading sunset sky; twelve dancers, all adorned in white, step down the stairs while they curl their arms in mesmerizing arcs. Sweet smelling smoke drifts onto the stairs in large clouds, and just as soon as the dancers curl their arms inwards, a figure emerges from beneath them, confetti and sparks floating past her wild hair.

  
Trongy’s voice echoes across the crowd, low and smooth, like a hand grazing against the collarbone of everyone listening.

 _“Hello darlings! I’m so happy you could all make it this evening for what will, most definitely, be a once-in-a-lifetime kind of event. I hope you’re all ready - you_ are _all ready,_ aren’t you _?”_ The cheering is deafening.

Some guests seem to have already started drinking for the evening; their shouts the loudest and their cheeks varying shades of ruddy red. Trongy smiles as if she can tell, and when she bites her lip it’s almost as if to accentuate the sharp point of her canines. When she turns she sways her tail against the swing of her hips, blowing a kiss over her shoulder as she moves inside the estate. Once Trongy’s finally out of view, party goers scramble for the entrance, their appetites now thoroughly whet. Servants dressed in white tie white ribbons on the right wrist of each guest, explaining that tonight there will be a raffle; and should the guest in question win, their ribbon would likewise declare them so later in the evening.

Right before the entryway is an Elvish person of average height, a violent pink splotch against a line of uniformly dressed servants.

They have a basket of their own, with more than a handful of ribbons. They’re wearing sunglasses, but their eyes still dart between the (mostly obscured) faces of the guests, searching for something that even they’re not quite sure they can name. Whatever it may be, Relovan decidedly finds it in five very different people:

One: A beast borne woman with thick pink hair, covered in flowers and vines that wrap around her tail. She walks as if each step is a question, and her mask is crooked as if hurriedly tied behind her ears just moments before arriving; but her smile is genuine and her eyes are permanently wide with wonder at her surroundings.

Two: A red tiefling man, with a demeanor that makes him hard to ever dislike, and a sincere friendliness rarely found in the Acropolis. If Relovan let their eyes drag for a second longer over the tightly laced corset ‘round the man’s waist, they would never say so; but likewise, no one could blame them - the red tiefling seemed more akin to a prince than the pauper he would, in due time, profess to be.

Three: A red haired half-elf woman, with a sharp nose and a voice gentle enough to ease the tension in Relovan’s shoulders as they stop her. While she does not walk on her pointe shoes, the gentle deliverance she carries in her step speaks to years of experience. She smiles at Relovan after receiving her bracelet, but it never quite reaches the corners of her eyes.

Four: A Tabaxi, whose tail quickly reveals the state of his discomfort; the frayed out hairs catching on the suit pants and skirts of passerby, leaving them with tiny streaks of fur left behind. They stand at a height taller than most and still feel miniscule, shoulders hunched and straining against the dress shirt (that seemed to be a size too small). As Relovan ties the ribbon around his paw, they feel a kinship - even if the Tabaxi will never know.

Five: An orange tiefling who jingles and clacks when he walks, a one-man percussion line from the bells on his outfit to the sound of his hooves on the steps. It is hard to hear him speak past the mask that covers his entire face; but later Relovan would find that the sounds he could pull from the strings of his violin were some of the loveliest music they’d ever heard.  
If there had been a rubric, a list of requirements running through Relovan’s head for these five individuals, it would be difficult to guess what had deemed them chosen. Perhaps it was a random coincidence. A whim.  
Imagine to know then, to be chosen for no other reason than “no reason” at all.

* * *

From then onwards past the glamour of the wide swinging doors, the celebration seemed to exist only in independent moments; some dragging so long they left party goers feeling as if they had begun to collect dust. Other moments - well those were hardly long enough to gasp during, just a second shorter than a blink.

  
***

  
Seemingly, an hour: Ruby’s paws absentmindedly clench and unclench as he scans the different spreads of hors devours; he’s never seen such...unique ways of arranging food on a plate. Settling for something that resembles fish, he eats beside the table, watching the fountain of champagne flutes enchanted into place and endlessly refilling themselves. A part of him thinks of home, wondering how his adoptive family might react if they could experience the kind of big city living people got up to here in the Acropolis.

  
***

A second: Chenille, that redheaded woman one with the spine of a cat, curls her fingers around a glass of champagne with a finesse akin to a dancer as she pulls it from the top of a pyramid of stacked glasses. Another: her hair falling gently behind her back, wave after wave of soft auburn curls.

***

  
A minute: Those reddish waves have caught the attention of Acacia, the beast borne (who, unbeknownst to her, has been leaving behind trails of pink rose petals), though not for the reasons the other might assume. For the time being, Chenille has become a beacon of pink against a sea of muddied colors, blurred together as if by a child’s hands. She is regretting leaving her glasses behind. Another: the visually impaired woman smiles in her relief, the anxious twitching of her tail now soothed into an idle swing.

  
***

  
A single second, stretched and shared from across the room: Chenille briefly notices Acacia’s staring, and sneaks a quick once-over of the woman under her eyelashes before settling on another point of interest. She made her assessment easily - the beast borne woman seems pretty, but untethered to the ground and lightheaded; a fine combination in the right company, but inappropriate for the kind of worthwhile conversation Chenille has intentions for.

***

Minutes drift past slow as cooling tar: as much as Chenille is there to retrieve answers to questions left simmering under her skin by her employer, she has a personal stake in this as well. The host of the evening has rumored wandering hands and a penchant for privacy - a rare combination in the Acropolis. Chenille has found enough evidence of that herself: rarely did one give themselves over without a secret or two as well.  
She catches herself idly sipping as she wanders the halls of the mansion, following drunken party goers as she quickly makes her way through clouds of cigar smoke and gambling tables, spilling a bit of drink as she passes an orange tiefling, his groans barely audible from under his hands.  
***  
An eternity: it seems he has just lost to the house - and with nothing left to spare. Anxiety begins to dig its claws into Ipu’s shoulder the second he has a chance to scan the room; there are hunched over mountains made of broad shouldered gamblers with mean grimaces and eyes that watch you walk. But gambling has always come with the thrill of adrenaline; of possibility! It’s what kept gambling exciting, past losses, the lows, the empty pockets - the chance that you might stumble away a winner is intoxicating enough to Ipu that he’s let himself get carried away... again.

Penniless, and therefore, useless in a gambling hall; he makes his way down another hallway that seems to stretch and twist into unnatural angles, holding the world at slowly rotating forty five degree angles. It’s possible Ipu may have had too many glasses of champagne - if he had been prodded to answer, he will certainly never tell. He wanders upon a room of drunken dancers and performers, two of which (a red tiefling man and a small halfling woman) have begun to stir up such a commotion that people have taken to dancing on the table tops.  
***  
Seconds with an aftertaste that last eons: Song finds it difficult to imagine a scenario better than what he had experienced thus far tonight. It seems impossible for anyone to talk to him and not instantly rally to his side; and so now he dances besides a halfling woman named Aithne, the two of them performing as if it’s been honed over weeks of rehearsals. Obviously an instantaneous success, an orange tiefling decides to join in, hooves rhythmically clacking in time to the music on the marble tables.  
Other party goers throw coins at their feet, blown away by the impromptu performance. Drunk on both praise and several glasses of champagne, Song has a change of heart: now he can imagine no way to improve this night.  
***  
Chenille watched the exchange, glass of champagne in hand as the room had quickly fallen into drunken piles of people, all laughing at their inability to remain coordinated (or upright). She had admired the performance to a certain degree, but their manner of dancing doesn’t quite agree with her own (refined, perfected, traditional).  
Just as she considers asking a servant for the time, one strides into the room past her.

The servants in each room announce that Trongy will be giving a performance shortly in the grand foyer; while any guest is welcome to do as they please, they’ll have to hurry if they wish to secure a place near the stage. Of course, the guests surge again, perhaps more akin to lemmings than people, drunken laughter and the smells of different kinds of tobacco mingling together as they push forward to the grand foyer. With the flick of a servant’s wrist, oil lanterns burn in hues of blues and purples and smoke begins to unfurl across a long platform, pooling over the narrow walkway that points into the crowd. When she finally arrives onto the stage, dancers likewise echoing the curve of her spine and wave of her arms, she watches the crowd as if to make eye contact with every guest; as if her performance were for them and them alone.

She struts across the stage as if she were a cat gracefully leaping from beam to beam, and every move is designed to arouse as she allows her hands to roam across her body, throwing suggestive winks towards the audience. Trongy’s voice lays across the music like a velvet lining, and her hair seems to have a gravity of its own as she continues to slide across the stage.

Reaching the conclusion of her performance, her chest heaves with the effort of her breathing as she announces, her voice still carrying over the cheers and whistles:

 _“Are you all ready for the surprise?”_ Trongy basks in their applause with outstretched arms as a ladder unfurls from the ceiling and the lights are snuffed out, leaving the crowd in darkness.

Except for five individuals, with five glowing ribbons, tied around their wrist.

* * *

Trongy says the game is simple.

  
“Make it to the roof of the building with your ribbon, and your prize will be five-hundred gold coins, and any wish granted!” She says it with a wink, as if she can’t see the way hundreds of eyes frantically turn to hunt for glowing ribbons. As if a wish is a trivial prize.

“Anyone can steal your bracelet, so don’t get caught on your way! You’ll all get a thirty second head-start, starting… _now.”_

Regardless of whether Trongy said it to be cruel or because she underestimates her own game, it does not feel simple. The five all scramble up the ladder (Chenille catching more than a handful of whistles for flipping herself upwards, feet strung through the rungs) and make it to a landing facing three sets of stairs. Of course, each set of stairs has a different catch that makes them all equally annoying to climb over; so naturally those 5 individuals can’t spare even a moment to speak to one another in favor of taking the stairs three at a time. The sound of other party goers falling over each other as they give chase nips at their heels like hounds on the scent.

There still isn’t much room for conversation as they explore the small maze set in front of them, rooms twisting into another; one filled with portraits of elves with wavy white-blond hair, another bursting with gold and jewels. In the time it takes to explore each room, they are caught by other attendees intent on stealing their ribbons, but as the other party goers attempt to remove them - the ribbons seem stuck, permanently.  
With wariness working its way through the five, they make their way into a final room: it’s filled with comfortable lounge chairs, food and other refreshments, and a fountain full of a glittering clear liquid that heals them of their wounds.

However, the door to the roof is locked.

There are no keys in sight, and it isn’t possible to pick the lock - there’s no hole.

On the door, a plaque reads _“Once you give it, you must keep it.”_

All of them give the answer the door requires - (“I give you my word,”) and once they’ve each said the answer, the door unlocks, revealing a much smaller party taking place on the roof, little balls of faerie flame casting light on the waiting five.

Trongy is there on a small platform, hands applauding their arrival.

“May we see the faces of our victors?” she asks, her own mask long abandoned.

Each of them remove their masks, save for Ipu - and with each reveal Trongy’s smile begins to falter, the veneer chipping away. When Song unstrings his mask, something sharp and abrasive flashes across Trongy’s eyes before she recovers, her face unreadable, her tone perhaps too even.

“If you’re interested in enjoying the party, you may; but you’re also welcome to head straight inside and wait for your prize money. A servant will show those of you who would like to go inside which room to wait in.” She disappears into the crowd while a small band plays a soulful slow tune, causing a wave of couples to come together on the dance floor, an ocean of swaying shoulders and held hands.

  
Chenille watches her beeline, recognizing Relovan standing beside another Elvish man she hasn’t met, who seems to be in complete contrast to Relovan’s white waves and soft pinks, his long black hair pulled taut into a ponytail and his suit a dark gray. Trongy’s voice wasn’t louder than the music but Chenille can see from the way her jaw clenches on each word that something has left her boiling. She moves closer.

  
“I told you to find me muscle! Beef! Something with a thick skull and thicker arms! Why couldn’t you handle this one thing?” Trongy’s voice is desperate as she gesticulates at Relovan.  
“Aw, Trongy, I don’t think you’re giving them enough credit. I think they look ...interesting!”  
“I didn’t ask for interesting,” she hisses, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She turns to the other elf, who’s now pulled his plague doctor mask off of his face. “Kerym. Can you break this?”  
“No.” Kerym seems as interested as he is enthusiastic, which is to say - not at all.  
“Asshole!” Trongy smacks his arm with the back of her hand, enough that he stumbles a step backwards.  
“You asked. I answered. What’s done is done.” Kerym walks away as Trongy begins to mock him, her voice stopping as she makes eye contact with Chenille. Mouth now firmly in a frown, she heads inside the mansion, Chenille following behind to the room where the others are seated and waiting.

* * *

The room they’re all seated in feels almost claustrophobic, the impact only worsened by trying to fit five people on one couch across from Trongy (who sits decidedly spread legged, arms stretched across the back, as if to flaunt the spare room). She takes the time to carefully load a long pipe that she lights with the snap of her thumb, and then unfurls a scroll, leaving it to bounce and roll within itself as it rests on the table.

The text is too difficult to read from afar, but “CONTRACT” is hard to miss, written along the top edge.  
“You might as well read that,” Trongy says, exhaling a cloud of smoke immediately above her. “Considering you’re a part of it now.”  
There are only so many different ways one can react to being told they’re a part of a contract - For what? Why me? Why us? _How?_ \- and everyone in the room makes a point of asking each question at least once. Trongy smokes while they talk over one another, waiting for their attention.

“You’re going to help me kill a warlock. I don’t know their name, or where they are, but I should warn you - I would not refuse. There is a very nasty death written in here if you decide to turn me down. It’s _"simple"_. ” Her voice drips with sarcasm.

  
“Fuck it,” Ipu is seemingly the first to come to terms with this one-sided agreement. “Where do I sign?”

  
Trongy laughs, leaning backwards in her seat as she smiles at them, the room almost revolving around her as she says:  
“You’ve already given me your word.”

* * *

It was the ribbons.

Tied along their wrists, from the very beginning, enchanted to entrap them into the Contract. There was never any chance of them being removed without agreeing. The glamour, the anticipation, the thrill of it had been manufactured with intention; in the frenzy of being chased (and while in the process of navigating unknown halls) who would stop to question the validity of their prize? The necessity of the chase, the stress on urgency?

It was supposed to be a game.  
It was a party - no one present and accounted for could say they expected to be caught in the wave of movement upwards. Trongy seemed largely unfettered by their concern, crossing her legs while watching them gape at her. Impatient with their lack of responses, Trongy gathered the Contract in her hand, and began to make her exit from the room.

  
“We leave in the morning. You’ll be shown to your rooms,” she called over her shoulder, the fading clacks of her heeled boots echoing down the hall.  
For a moment, they all sat together, struck into a mutual silence. Chenille wrung a hand around her wrist, eyebrows knit and jaw set hard with anxiety. Likewise, Ipu seemed suddenly transfixed on adjusting the tassels that swung from his outfit, and his fingers nervously adjusted the band that wrapped around his tail. Ruby had centered his vision on the anxious swishing of Acacia’s tail - if he had heard, or understood, anything that had been said or mumbled in the time since sitting down, he made no indication.

Song shared his empty stare, focused on the wall in front of him, his mind teetering on suspicion and incredulity. While he had admittedly come to this party in light of its star performer, he hadn’t expected her to be so...cold. Neither did he anticipate the way her glare shot through him, as if he were see through - as if he was as fragile as glass, and she held the hammer threateningly in hand.

Their individual and miniature breakdowns were momentarily cut short by a soft knock on the doorframe. Relovan - the elf from before, still wearing sunglasses and their delightfully pink bloomers, stood in the doorframe, accompanied by four servants dressed in white.

“Hello!” they began nervously, adjusting their vest and brushing away the dust that wasn’t there. “My name is Relovan - I hope Trongy wasn’t....too abrasive just now.” they throw a worried glance down the direction she had left.

The group muttered a round of agreements or disagreements - “She wasn’t exactly nice”, “I’ve experienced worse”, and “Man, you have a really nice house” - all at once in such a cacophony that Relovan couldn’t reply to any of them, and they instead smiled sympathetically, offering their hand to each person individually.

“Well, I promise her behavior will turn around; she’s just a little...off-ish tonight. And you are?” they asked, first offering their hand to Ipu, then Song, then Ruby, Acacia - they seemed to lose themselves to introductions, and it wasn’t until Chenille politely coughed that they realized they had mistakenly glazed over her, jumping at the sound.

“Ah! Oh, my goodness-- I’m so, so, sorry - there’s so many of you and it’s so easy to get caught up in the excitement of it! I’ve never met such an interesting group!”  
“It’s alright, you needn’t apologize,” her smile is a bit strained, if polite. “I'm Chenille Safin, it’s a pleasure to --”

“Oh!” exclaimed Relovan. “I think I’ve heard of you mentioned before! You’re employed by Lord Devorak, aren’t you?”Chenille’s smile falters for all of a second. “Yes, I do. How do you know of him, if I may ask…?”

Relovan shrugs a bit sheepishly, running a hand over their braid, tugging at pieces of loose blond hair. “I suppose he’s a bit of a family acquaintance? I can’t say I know him, so much as of him. It’s a pleasure to meet you though - all of you!” They gesture excitedly to the group in the hall before leading them down the opposite side of the hall from where Trongy left. “I’m sure you’re all tired after today, let me show you to your rooms!”

They don’t really chat too much between themselves as Relovan and the servants accompanying escort them to a series of doors, three to each side. The rooms themselves seem completely identical and eerily unused, with clean pressed linens on a modest full sized bed, and adjoining dresser at the foot of it. Folded on top of each bed is a set of pajamas - it seems as if the moment Relovan had tied their ribbons on each wrist, they had immediately notified their servants of the general height and weight of each guest -- the pajamas manage to fit comfortably on everyone as they change out of their far more extravagant (and for some, vaguely uncomfortable) clothes.

Each drifts off to sleep in their own way, some taking longer than others; all unsure of what the next morning may bring.


	3. THE FOX IN THE GARDEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "“When I lived by a river, I always had plenty of access to fish and plenty of berries, but it’s so nice when you don’t have to catch your own meal before you cook it.” She chews thoughtfully, eyes drifting upwards towards the painted ceiling. “And I haven’t even had to pick out any bones from my teeth yet!”
> 
> That drew a sidelong glance from Chenille, who mumbled towards Song, “She seems a bit...weird.”  
> “I think everyone seems weird,” Song replied, mumbled quite obviously under his hand."

Birdsong and sunlight streamed through the windows in each bedroom, and warmed the faces of the six guests as they lay stretched across their individual beds. Chenille was the first to rise; and had noticed through her window the outline of Trongy’s shoulders standing across from someone in the rose gardens. Presumably it was Relovan - she could catch the waves of platinum blond hair easily enough - but Trongy stood in such a way that she couldn’t see their face. Curious enough to pursue, she had made her way down the hall and through the labyrinth of rooms and staircases that made up Relovan’s home, eventually breaking past a servant (who insisted she stay inside for breakfast), sneaking her way to the entrance of the rose gardens.

  
However, having heard her coming, Trongy seemed to cut short whatever conversation she and Relovan were having. They seemed as if they’d been hurriedly putting on their sunglasses as Chenille approached, and Trongy turned around to face her - or rather, loom over her - Trongy had nearly two heads on Chenille’s height. It was a palpable difference felt in the way Chenille had to tilt her chin upwards to make eye contact.

“Shouldn’t you be back inside?” asked Trongy. The night previous, she had spoken to guests as if each sentence had a specific swagger - now, it was as if each word was a chore she disliked more than the last.  
“Haven’t you eaten breakfast?” asked Chenille, tone light and airy. She shivered against the provided pajamas; while they were admittedly high quality, that did not extend itself to protecting anyone against the cool dewey air.  
“I don’t believe that’s any of your concern.” Trongy’s voice was as blunt as her sentences. Chenille, thoroughly bristled, decided that it would be better to reclaim what pride she had and gather herself back inside, rather than continue trying to have a conversation with a particularly aggressive brick wall of a woman. Relovan gave a sheepish and apologetic smile from behind Trongy as they waved. It was a pittance, but a welcome salve against Trongy’s coarse behavior.

Inside, everyone had taken quickly to the table that had been set up where a stage had been just the night previous. Chairs had been set out to accomodate for everyone who might wish to partake in the decadent spread. There were more options for breakfast than there were guests at the table; cutting boards were stacked with cheeses and sliced fruits, fresh loaves of bread, croissants, sausages, strips of sizzling bacon - the smell of it was enough to intoxicate those who hadn’t seen so handsome a spread….ever.  
Ipu settled for orange slices, pulling a chair underneath himself next to Song.

“Hey - that was a pretty sick show we put on last night, wasn’t it?” Song makes conversation as easily as he stacks his plate high with an assortment of sausages and hard-boiled eggs.  
Ipu, having already begun the indelicate process of peeling and eating an orange slice, pulled the rind from his teeth as he nodded. “Absolutely. You’re pretty good on that mandolin.”  
“Same to you with those moves! I’ve never seen someone dance like that!” Song nearly knocks over Acacia’s glass of orange juice as he flings his hands outwards, but Ipu managed to reach across, catching the rim with his free hand before it could ruin the pile of rice and grilled fish on Acacia’s plate.  
“Shoot - Acacia, right? My bad, sorry! Can you believe this spread though? I don’t think I’ve ever had to pick between this many different dishes for any meal, let alone for free!”

Acacia blinks twice, still a little sleepy as she nods, mouth full of fish.  
“Mm, I couldn’t agree more! You should really try the fish, Song, it tastes very fresh.”  
Ruby made a noise that sounded like something between an agreement and a ghoulish moan, his own cheeks stuffed full as well. Chenille, having watched this exchange, found herself still hovering on the edge of the table, not quite yet seated. Irregardless of having only known Chenille barely for one night, Song waved a hand at her with all the familiarity of an old friend, gesturing for her to take a seat.  
“You said your name was Chenille last night, didn’t you? I feel like I should properly introduce myself.” He smiled, then, big and oafish and impossible to frown at (even if it was too early to be cheerful). “I’m Song - it’s nice to meet you!”  
“Likewise, Song,” Chenille is polite, but it’s early, and there’s a delicious cup of hot coffee probably begging for her to drink it. Besides - she’s wasted her morning pleasantries on another tiefling by now. When she pulls herself to the table, she nods to the dishes laid out in front of them.  
“You know, I’m actually sort of used to this kind of spread.” And it isn’t a lie. Her mornings for the past seven years had been spent at similar tables, quietly drinking her morning coffee and pecking at plates of food. She even noticed Relovan and Devorak had a similar taste in silverware. Those around her at the table shared wide-eyed looks that spoke to their history of scrounging - or at the very least, a lack of excess. Acacia continues to load fish onto her plate, her eyes a little sleepy as she takes bites between words.  
“When I lived by a river, I always had plenty of access to fish and plenty of berries, but it’s so nice when you don’t have to catch your own meal before you cook it.” She chews thoughtfully, eyes drifting upwards towards the painted ceiling. “And I haven’t even had to pick out any bones from my teeth yet!”

That drew a sidelong glance from Chenille, who mumbled towards Song, “She seems a bit...weird.”  
“I think everyone seems weird,” Song replied, mumbled quite obviously under his hand. Chenille managed a small _'hm'_ as she continued to stir her coffee (for no true purpose at all other than to keep her hands busy, given she had already stirred enough cream and sugar into her coffee to turn it a much more pleasant shade of creamy brown). Acacia, having not heard the conversation, was occupied with splitting half of the fish on her plate and placing it onto the edge of Song’s with a comically delicate touch.  
“I haven't really had a ‘home’ to go home to in recent memory, so it’s easy to forget how nice it can be to have a fancy kitchen table and a big meal like this, don’t you think?” Song nodded in sincere agreement, shoving pieces of fish into his mouth as quickly as Acacia placed them on his plate.

Ipu, having drifted from the conversation, (and from breakfast itself, having finished his three slices), had begun wandering up the grand staircases that stood on either side of the great hall. The previous night these stairs had been inaccessible, blocked either by servants and white ropes or crowds of warm bodies. At the top of the stairs, past an open loft area full of knick-knacks and worldly souvenirs, was a door closed shut.

A locked door.

Quickly making his way back down towards the others at the table, his breath came in quick puffs as he began a very quick (and sloppy) assessment of the moral alignment of those around him.

“Does anyone…want to help me with a locked door upstairs?” The bells on Ipu’s tail jingle as he bounces them back and forth. While Acacia, Song, and Ruby shared raised eyebrows, Chenille stood so quickly her thighs caught against the edge of the table, causing the silverware to shuffle against the tablecloth.  
“Yes - I would,” She cleared her throat, adjusting herself as she walked towards the staircase. Ipu followed quickly behind her, his hooves clacking against the white marble floors as he scrambled to lead her to the door.

Whatever intentions Chenille had for the door in question, it seemed intent on impeding her process. While she fussed and hissed curses at the lock, Ipu watched idly, wondering if it would be worth it to ask if she needed help. When the door successfully swung open, Chenille counted her victories as she stole inside the room. Ipu follows as well, bells on his tail now held firmly in his palm to mute the sound.

The bedroom isn’t small, but not ridiculously sized; large enough to fit a bed big enough for three people, with a sloped ceiling and sun window that leads the eye upwards. Across the bed, a large tapestry is hung; it’s been embroidered in black and gold, the symbol of half a sun’s face superimposed over the moon. A few clothes are scattered across the floor in somewhat chaotically organized piles, and in the corner stands a bass guitar; the gloss catches and reflects the sunlight. Ipu and Chenille both explored the room, making little notes along the way - a lack of family pictures, an excess of varying styles and sizes of underwear, and a wardrobe full of bespoke clothes.

And a bedside table, with two locked drawers.

Chenille made quick work of these locks - at least, quick work in comparison to the door. The contents of the first drawer left her cheeks red as she quickly slammed it shut (barring Ipu from taking a peek inside), but the second yielded something of interest: a small leather bound journal, locked as well. If Ipu had seen how Chenille quickly tucked the journal away inside her sleeve, he made no effort to make it known.  
“I think we’ve seen just about all we can.” Ipu’s tail begged to swing in wide, nervous arcs, but his fist was still firm around the bells attached to its end.

Chenille had already been making her way to the door by the time he was midway through his sentence, her footsteps hurried as she made her way back down to the table ahead of him. Ipu followed her haste, shutting the door behind him, releasing the bells from his grasp.

When they returned to the table, (both a bit breathless after taking the flight of stairs twice), Song eyed them with scrutiny.  
“You two aren’t getting into any trouble up there, are you?” Ipu makes a noise something like a nonchalant - if nervous - groan, rubbing at his arm.  
“Well, no, but maybe we shouldn’t have gone in there…” Ipu cast sheepish eyes towards Chenille, who was intent on ignoring it, instead throwing herself fully into the art of buttering her toast.  
“Ooo, gone in where? Did you find something cool?” Whatever hang-ups about the situation Song had previously seemed to melt away under the guise of mysterious found objects.  
“No,” respond Ipu and Chenille, in perfect unison.  
Song could not even think to question whether or not that was trustworthy. Ruby, however, eyed Chenille warily from his end of the table.  
“What’s that accent from, anyways?” asked Ruby. “Are you kinda like one of those..."hoighty toighty" types?”  
Chenille’s frown was sharp against her face. “I’m not a ‘hoighty-toighty’ type. I’m from here.” She gestures vaguely around them.  
“Wait, you live _here_? Kind of weird to stay in the guest room at your own house.” If Ruby was purposefully obtuse to annoy her, everyone witnessing this conversation at the table silently agreed he was excellent at the job. Too excellent. Chenille crumpled a handkerchief in her palm under the tablecloth.  
“No, I don’t live _here._ I am from here--The Acropolis.”  
Ruby stared with blank eyes.  
“The Upper City?”  
Still blank.  
 _“...Scaena.”_

Finally, recognition as Ruby’s eyes lit up again. “Right! Right. That’s where we are. Sorry. Man, it’s easy to get all those names mixed up, isn’t it?”  
The soft (if terse) response of “No, it isn’t-“ is lost to the sounds of Trongy and Relovan entering the grand hall. Relovan adjusts their sunglasses again, still wearing them indoors. They take a seat next to Song, immediately beginning to tuck into breakfast with enthusiasm. Trongy stood, arms crossed against her chest. It gave the impression that she did not have intentions to stay.

“Relovan will be taking you all shopping today. We don’t exactly have time for you all to grab your own change of clothes, so one will be provided and paid for.” Before turning to leave, she noted: “Besides - I would recommend against telling any of your families about the...specifics of our Contract.”  
Some of them felt the frown pull at their faces as they realized they did not even know the specifics of the Contract, all of them having failed to read over the document fully the night before.

The sound of Trongy's shoes against the marble fading away announced when she had departed. Relovan, mouth full of biscuit and eggs, swallowed hard before smiling at everyone.

  
“Did you all enjoy the breakfast?”


End file.
